I've just devoured Graeme Simsion's second novel, The Rosie Effect, and I'm already hungry for the third part of the trilogy. I set out to read this quickly, as I was approximately one third of the way into Toni Morrison's Paradise when it came into the library for me and I didn't want to lose the thread of her masterpiece yet again, but I did not anticipate consuming it within 24 hours. Yes, I did other things, work, kids, household, in that time, but every spare second, and a few I probably shouldn't have spared, were spent completely engrossed in the continuing tale of Don Tillman. Simsion's writing is fast and fluid, and I find Don so relatable I don't need to ponder his thoughts or actions. Hence, whipping through the first two books in this series.
The new dimension of a baby on the way drew me even deeper into this book than The Rosie Project. The scrutiny of Don's suitability as father material raised some painful questions for me and caused me to reflect on my own journey into motherhood. Clearly, as a woman, I had the double-sided experience of being in Rosie's shoes as well, so reading this book provided an opportunity to explore two distinct forces within my own mind.
When I became pregnant with my first child, I had no idea I was autistic. I'd thought about it in passing as increasing numbers of friends posted things about it on social media, but the Ran Man stereotype was solidly cemented into my brain (just as in Don's), so I shrugged it off. While the female presentation of ASD was only just being codified by the DSM-5 around the time I was growing a baby, I apparently had enough "tells" to be picked out by some professionals. No one, however, had the decency to mention it to me.
The distain Don encounters from the social worker, Lydia, recalled an experience I had during my first antenatal appointment. I went blindly to see a random doctor, who I expected would instruct me on what I should/shouldn't do, as I was unaware of any of the protocols or procedures surrounding pregnancy at the time. Although I had become pregnant precisely when I intended to (four months after going off the pill, and a month after giving up coffee and alcohol, I deemed the safest minimum time at which to "pull the keeper"), was an appropriate age (34), finished with my PhD, gainfully employed on my second 3-year contract at a prestigious university, and married, I got the distinct feeling that the first doctor I saw thought I was tremendously unsuited for the task. I attempted to get the requisite information from her, but left angry and insulted after being spoken to like a child for half an hour. I took the pile of pamphlets home and ingested their guidance and recommendations along with half a round of unpasteurised sheep cheese, which I promptly put away when I read the warnings about listeria.
I can visualise that doctor's visit and the follow-up with painful clarity. I can hear her rising tone of irritation as I resolutely refused to have the amniotic fluid tested for markers of Down Syndrome, as my husband and I had weighed the risks of the procedure and were unprepared to terminate the birth on such grounds. I sensed she was angry with me about something else, but I had no idea what. I was healthy, fit, educating myself as rapidly as possible about all things pregnancy and baby related, committed to breast feeding, and making informed choices, what could she possibly be aggrieved of?
It took seven years and this book for the penny to drop. If I were a betting person, I would put money on her judging me unfit because she saw my lack of eye contact, endlessly fidgeting and fluttering hands, "professorial" tone, sewed it up in one dismissive package and hoped I wouldn't bring "another one" into the world. It's certainly possible that I'm giving her more credit and a colder heart than she's due. Maybe she was just overworked and tired. Maybe she thought I was lying about my diet, exercise, non-use of drugs and alcohol, etc. because I couldn't look her in the eye when asked. Who knows? But the way she talked to me, like I was a child or an imbecile, rather than someone with exceptional brain power, makes it hard to draw a different conclusion.
I've heard many other autistics repeat this same refrain. The moment someone, particularly a (mental) health professional, either discovers our diagnosis or surmises it for themselves, we're summarily dismissed as too daft to understand what they're saying. Either that, or they dismiss the diagnosis, because we're clearly too "high functioning" to be autistic. A nasty Catch-22.
The Rosie Effect does great things to dispel so many of the myths surrounding autism. Don loves deeply, is a stalwart friend, is trusting and patient to a fault. The lengths he goes to in his attempts to protect, assist, and prop up the people around him are laudable. I was moved to waves of tears as his friends and family gave their heart-felt accounting of all he'd done for them. These are the stories of autists we need to tell.
This wouldn't be an honest review if I didn't include the things about this book that chafed. No great criticisms, but things that made me pause and suspend my belief. I find Don's best friend, Gene, continues to be far too two-dimensional. I recognise that this is normal through Don's lens, but even Gene's words and actions don't belie a full human rendering in this book. I keep waiting for him to be more completely revealed around every corner then feel disappointed when he's not.
I will also add one editorial comment. No American medical student would use the term "muso". That is an unabashedly Australian term, which had me scanning back through the pages to see if there was any indication that the study group contained other Aussies. It was also odd that Don used the term "crib" instead of "cot", even when speaking to his father, but I can see why the former would be selected for international audiences to avoid confusion.
Finally, I gave this an unreserved 5 stars on Goodreads and highly recommend it to anyone looking for a touching, fast-paced, insightful read.
